


Self Abuse

by ColebaltBlue



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bisexual Sherlock Holmes, Masturbation, Other, Rope Bondage, self abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/pseuds/ColebaltBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes likes sex just fine, thank you very much, he just prefers to handle things himself.  Pun intended.</p><p>Ambiguous Sherlock Holmes, can be read as just about any adaptation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self Abuse

**Author's Note:**

> Tagged by mistyzeo with the prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _It feels like one of those nights, We won't be sleeping._
> 
>  
> 
> Mistyzeo added: That's a Taylor Swift lyric and I am not sorry.
> 
> Thank you billiethepoet for the quick beta.

The first time he took his cock in hand for the sole purpose of bringing himself to orgasm it was summer and he was twelve. He had seen a neighbor boy, stripped to the waist, sweat dripping down his back, glistening over his abdominal muscles. It was quick and furtive under stifling hot blankets in his room. Afterwards, he went and studied the anatomy books so that he'd know exactly how it had all happened. But that didn't explain why.

The second time, it was because he had noticed the soft swell of breasts under the shirt of the neighbor boy's sister. The books didn't explain that either.

By the time he was eighteen, he was fairly surprised that he hadn't worn the thing out. The last few years had been a blur of experiments, for that's what he called them, trying it in every single way he could. Right hand, left hand, no hand, and both. Every hour of the day had been attempted, once even at the top of every hour for a whole day. That one sent him back to his books to deal with a swollen, sore, and painful to the touch cock and he was relieved to discover that he hadn't broken it. After that, sometimes he would treat himself to a session just thinking about that day. The exhaustion and, by the end, the pain.

School with his peers taught him that he liked it best with himself. That adding another led to _complications_. It was messy enough to deal with his own emissions, but add another, and then lubricant, and then, god forbid, emotions into the mix. Ruinous.

But if he, or she for that matter, held him down and made him feel it to his very bones the next day? Well. That was tolerable. And usually worth the rest of it. Breasts were nice too.

And of course, using chemistry to perfect his very own lubricant recipe. Selling it to his peers provided plenty of pocket money to pay for some of his other experiments.

He strained against the ropes that tied him to the chair, unable to move. His cock was painfully engorged and dripping. The woman's melodious voice was soothing in the pitch black room and he focused on the words she was reading. It was the words that mattered, the shape and feel of them, the pronunciation and patterns, what they were describing. Focusing, he strained to reach climax. Gentle releases of semen belied the violence of the climax as it flowed over the head of his cock, pulsing in time with the convulsions that wracked his body. The ropes that had been restraining now held him up as he hung his head and caught his breath. When he finally had enough he said a single word and the woman approached him from behind, untied his hands and exited the room with the agreed upon payment for services rendered. 

There was a wealth of information out there if one knew just where to look. And so he tried it all.

When that was no longer enough, he turned to repeating it all over again with chemical stimulants and cocktails. 

For a time, there was a fellow young man that shared many of his proclivities. Who understood and desired many of the same things he did. It became comfortable to sit beside him as they both lazily palmed their cocks, forcing one another into different rhythms and movements. He found that he did not mind this fellow's mouth on him, sucking, and slurping, and swallowing him down. He even grew to enjoy it, in certain circumstances. He liked to watch and his companion liked to be watched above all else. But when the young man had told him that he had fallen in love with someone else, he found that he also did not mind his solitude once again. Watching others, touching himself, and the eventual lack of ingenuity as others became boring and staid in their habits was draining.

So he found a woman instead. But that too ended in much the same way. Albeit with a few less tears than the young man had shed. 

While he enjoyed the visualizations of men's and women's bodies engaged in sex with themselves and each other, in the flesh, as it were; his own mind proved to be just as stimulating. So he returned to the experiments of his younger days, and the locals that catered to such tastes.

Then he met Watson.

And he finally understood what all those people in his past had been seeking. Something he hadn't even known he was missing.

Watson separated his sexual desires from his emotional ones for him and simply, steadfastly, and wonderfully met the needs of both with only the most charming of grumbles. 

Slowly and steadily he let Watson into his life. All of his life. And then, he invited Watson along.

And bless Watson, a companion in all things, followed as steadily on as ever.

The early summer warmth and the cool breeze kissed his skin all day. Watson was bright eyed and full of smiles. He felt alive, in a way he hadn't ever felt alive before. When they made it back to their home in the twilight he realized it was going to be one of those nights, "we won't be sleeping," he whispered to Watson.


End file.
